her room and picked up the list she had been working on. After reading a few words, she slammed it down, then paced across the bedroom a couple of times.
Maybe reading a book would take her mind off things. She pulled one from her bookcase, not even bothering to read the title. Her eyes scanned the first page at least three times before Maggie realized she didn’t know a single word she’d read. She tossed the book onto her bed. Her own tumultuous emotions had broken through her concentration, annihilating it.
The events from earlier today in the attic overwhelmed her. Her problems wouldn’t let go of her. What could she do about the information she’d uncovered? All the items had been cleverly hidden below mounds of useless castoffs from the past. She was sure neither her father nor Florence wanted her to see them.
With both parents busy with their own pursuits, now would be a good time to question the housekeeper. And much safer than bringing things up to her moth . . . Florence.
Maggie went down to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of hot tea. She sat in a chair at the table, warming her icy fingers around the mug.
She watched Mrs. Jorgensen washing dishes for a moment, then glanced back down at the hot brew. “Remind me how long you’ve known Mother and Father.” She lifted the cup for a sip, holding her breath waiting for the answer. She didn’t glance at the woman’s face, afraid to betray her agitation.
“Ja, and I’ve told you this before, for sure.” The older woman went to work, vigorously drying a bowl.
“I know.” Because her hands shook, Maggie set her drink down. She wiped her sweaty palms against her skirt.
“Well, your parents moved into the house beside the one where my dear departed husband and I had lived here in Seattle. When they first came to town, that is.”
When she stilled, Maggie finally looked at her face. With seriousness pinching her eyes, the woman studied Maggie intently.
“I was glad to have such nice neighbors, being a new widow and all. And why would you be wanting to be told all that again?”
Maggie glanced across the immaculate room toward the windows, then studied the clouds scudding across the gray sky. “Just because. So where did they move from? Do you know?”
The water swished in the dishpan. Maggie turned her attention toward the cook.
“They had been in Oregon City since they came there on the wagon train.” Mrs. Jorgensen stopped and stared into space. “I remember your dear mother told me that when they first moved in, but she never wanted to talk about her life in Oregon or on that wagon train.”
“I wonder why?” Maggie hoped her question would prompt other memories from the housekeeper.
Mrs. Jorgensen set a bowl on the table. “I wondered the same thing. Did some event cause them to leave and come to Seattle? The way she reacted when I asked that one time, I knew better than to ask again.”
Even though the woman’s voice had a note of finality to it, Maggie couldn’t let the subject alone. “And I was about five or six years old then?” Maggie puckered her brow. That seemed so long ago, almost a lifetime.
“Ja, I remember your sixth birthday party. Your mother had big plans, inviting every child for blocks around . . . and their parents. A lot of people for such a small house. She always had a knack for entertaining.” The housekeeper opened the cupboard door and placed the bowl in its usual position.
Maggie wasn’t interested in Florence’s parties. She stood and turned toward the housekeeper. “Where did we live?”
Mrs. Jorgensen’s eyes probed Maggie until she was afraid the woman could see the secrets in her heart. “Not in such a grand neighborhood like this one. Closer to the wharves.”
Maggie knew the area. The houses looked like hovels when compared to the mansion they lived in on Beacon Hill. She couldn’t imagine Florence ever surviving in those conditions. Even though Maggie could tell the housekeeper
Maybe reading a book would take her mind off things. She pulled one from her bookcase, not even bothering to read the title. Her eyes scanned the first page at least three times before Maggie realized she didn’t know a single word she’d read. She tossed the book onto her bed. Her own tumultuous emotions had broken through her concentration, annihilating it.
The events from earlier today in the attic overwhelmed her. Her problems wouldn’t let go of her. What could she do about the information she’d uncovered? All the items had been cleverly hidden below mounds of useless castoffs from the past. She was sure neither her father nor Florence wanted her to see them.
With both parents busy with their own pursuits, now would be a good time to question the housekeeper. And much safer than bringing things up to her moth . . . Florence.
Maggie went down to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of hot tea. She sat in a chair at the table, warming her icy fingers around the mug.
She watched Mrs. Jorgensen washing dishes for a moment, then glanced back down at the hot brew. “Remind me how long you’ve known Mother and Father.” She lifted the cup for a sip, holding her breath waiting for the answer. She didn’t glance at the woman’s face, afraid to betray her agitation.
“Ja, and I’ve told you this before, for sure.” The older woman went to work, vigorously drying a bowl.
“I know.” Because her hands shook, Maggie set her drink down. She wiped her sweaty palms against her skirt.
“Well, your parents moved into the house beside the one where my dear departed husband and I had lived here in Seattle. When they first came to town, that is.”
When she stilled, Maggie finally looked at her face. With seriousness pinching her eyes, the woman studied Maggie intently.
“I was glad to have such nice neighbors, being a new widow and all. And why would you be wanting to be told all that again?”
Maggie glanced across the immaculate room toward the windows, then studied the clouds scudding across the gray sky. “Just because. So where did they move from? Do you know?”
The water swished in the dishpan. Maggie turned her attention toward the cook.
“They had been in Oregon City since they came there on the wagon train.” Mrs. Jorgensen stopped and stared into space. “I remember your dear mother told me that when they first moved in, but she never wanted to talk about her life in Oregon or on that wagon train.”
“I wonder why?” Maggie hoped her question would prompt other memories from the housekeeper.
Mrs. Jorgensen set a bowl on the table. “I wondered the same thing. Did some event cause them to leave and come to Seattle? The way she reacted when I asked that one time, I knew better than to ask again.”
Even though the woman’s voice had a note of finality to it, Maggie couldn’t let the subject alone. “And I was about five or six years old then?” Maggie puckered her brow. That seemed so long ago, almost a lifetime.
“Ja, I remember your sixth birthday party. Your mother had big plans, inviting every child for blocks around . . . and their parents. A lot of people for such a small house. She always had a knack for entertaining.” The housekeeper opened the cupboard door and placed the bowl in its usual position.
Maggie wasn’t interested in Florence’s parties. She stood and turned toward the housekeeper. “Where did we live?”
Mrs. Jorgensen’s eyes probed Maggie until she was afraid the woman could see the secrets in her heart. “Not in such a grand neighborhood like this one. Closer to the wharves.”
Maggie knew the area. The houses looked like hovels when compared to the mansion they lived in on Beacon Hill. She couldn’t imagine Florence ever surviving in those conditions. Even though Maggie could tell the housekeeper
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